The Devil Went Down to Georgia
by NixDucky
Summary: In which the Devil goes down to Georgia and Dean follows him with his fiddle.


**AN: Happy Birthday Worm! **

**This has been in my mind ever since I saw a certain manip of Dean with a fiddle. Yes! And I made shameful use of The Devil Went Down to Georgia by The Charlie Daniels Band.**

**Timeline is before the end of Season Two-ish, but the story is not really canon compliant. Just go with it.**

**As this work is a gift for my usual beta, it has not been beta'd.**

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News had gotten around that _He _was in Georgia. Nosing around crossroads, making deals. No one could explain to Dean why Lucifer would want to play with the plebs. After all, he had his own King of the Crossroads who ran the entire crossroads-deals' enterprise, there was no reason for Lucifer to get involved with any of it. Bobby said that maybe he just liked to get his hands dirty once in a while. Dean figured that was as good a reason as any.

But whatever the reason, Lucifer was slumming it in Georgia, and Dean was determined to find him. The thing with Sam was out of control. Whatever the Yellow-Eyed-Demon had done to Sam, whatever he had planned for him, Dean was going to put a stop to it, and he figured he might as well go all the way to the top, make sure the deal he made for his brother's soul was as good as it could get.

Dean had no doubt that Sam was goodness personified. But the thing with the Croatoan virus? His dreams, or visions, or whatever they were? All the other "special" kids? It was freaking Dean out and his keep-Sammy-safe instinct was running on high alert. He needed to stop whatever was happening, and if Lucifer was wandering around Georgia, Dean was going to take a chance. Who knew when the big boss would be back topside?

Now, the thing most people didn't know about Dean? He had a talent. Sure Dean was a phenomenal hunter and he was proud of that. But there was a little more to Dean than weapons and monsters and killing. Sam was a book freak, and Bobby had helped Sam with that. Dean was a fiddle freak and Bobby was the one who had discovered that.

Dean must have been no more than five or six years old the first time he'd picked up Bobby's grandpa's old fiddle and started screeching away at it. Bobby had thought they were being attacked by angry wraiths or something at first. Nearly died of a heart attack. John had left the boys in his care and gone off, and so Bobby had spent some time with Dean (while baby Sam had been napping) and taught the boy what he knew about fiddling. Which admittedly, wasn't much, but Dean took to that fiddle like a duck to water. It wasn't something they ever told John about. All three of them—Bobby, Sam and Dean—knew that John would scoff at Dean learning to play a musical instrument, so it wasn't worth the trouble of bringing it up. But whenever the boys stayed at Bobby's, Dean would play while Sam would read. Even while they were on the road, if Dean got a chance to practice—after-hours in a school music room, or on an old instrument in a rundown bar after closing time—he'd grab it, always making sure there was no way that his dad would find out. Dean loved John, but he knew his dad would take this away from him, and sometimes the sound he could pull from the strings of a fiddle was the only thing that kept him sane.

He kept it up all through their childhood, and when Sam was gone and Dean was hunting alone, he'd finally bought an old fiddle from a pawn shop, and kept it hidden in its case behind the driver's seat of the Impala. And he never told John about it. Hell, he would only play for Sam on occasion. This was something that was just Dean's.

As a result, Dean never realised just how good he was. Truth be told, Dean was the best damn fiddler that had ever been and his skill was about to be tested.

Meg possessing Sam's body had been the last straw. Dean had left a note for Sam saying he was fine and not to follow him, and he'd left a message for Bobby saying the same. He had to get this done as soon as possible, because he was sure that they would both be on his tail almost immediately. It only took Dean a couple of days to cross the state line, and then a couple more to track Lucifer—thanks to some pretty epic demon signs. Cattle mutilations? How about exploding cows. Trust the devil to go overboard—to a derelict roadhouse-cum-bar on the outskirts of Johns Creek. Which Dean thought was all kinds of ironic.

He hung around the roadhouse for a few days, watching and waiting, and eventually his patience paid off when he noticed the same man leaving the bar with different people on consecutive nights. He never saw the people again. Dean wondered what would seal a deal with _the Devil _? He shivered a little thinking about it, but he was not going to back out of this. Sam was getting free and clear of all this demon business if it was the last thing that Dean did. And if it was, he was fine with that.

So Dean approached Lucifer and offered to buy him a drink.

"I know who you are," said the Devil, rather smugly, as he sipped on the cheap whiskey.

"What a coincidence," Dean answered, tilting his own glass in Lucifer's direction. "I know who you are too."

"Then let's get straight to business. You want your little brother's soul, free and clear of any demon entanglements. And I want to have some fun on my vacation. So here's the deal. I'm a fiddle player too."

Dean shouldn't have been surprised that the Devil knew about his secret, but nevertheless he was shaken. He tried to hide it and took a swig of the strong drink, choking a little as the liquid burned its way down his throat and settled uncomfortably in his stomach. It was _really _cheap whiskey.

"Normally, the bet would be a fiddle of gold against your soul. But in this case the prize is little Sammy's soul. Now you play pretty good fiddle, boy, but I bet Sammy's soul that I'm better than you," Lucifer smirked.

Dean couldn't _not _take the bet. This was what he'd come for, and to be honest it was a better deal than he thought he'd get. Dean was pretty sure he was a good fiddler. If he was going to use anything to fight for Sam, his fiddle was probably his best chance. He had to do it.

"I'll take that bet," he said simply. Then almost as an afterthought he added, "and I'm the only one who gets to call him 'Sammy.'"

After getting his fiddle from the car, Dean followed Lucifer to an empty field across the road from the dilapidated bar. They came to a stop in the middle of the field and Lucifer snapped his fingers. It seemed to Dean that a fiddle of fire appeared in the Devil's hands, and as he pulled the bow across the strings it made an evil hiss. The sound that emanated from that fiddle was like nothing that Dean had ever heard before. It was dark and sultry, with an undeniable rhythm that Dean couldn't resist. Despite his best intentions he found his feet tapping in time to the music. It was the most rapturous sound and towards the end there was a crescendo that sounded like a band of demons had joined in. Dean nearly gave up then and there.

But he steeled himself against his fear. He could do this. He _was damned good _. He could outplay the Devil and save his brother.

Feigning a confidence he didn't feel, Dean nodded as the Devil snapped his fingers and the flames and the fiddle disappeared. "Well, you're pretty good ol' son, but stand back and let me show you how it's done."

And Dean played that fiddle like he'd never played it before, or has since. The instrument became an extension of his arms and plugged into his heart, and he played out everything he felt for Sam. There were no flames, there was no demon band. But there was pure love and righteousness. Dean played the rhythm that his heart beat every time his take-care-of-Sammy instinct kicked in. It was the oldest and the strongest part of him. It was what kept him going when he felt like he couldn't go another day in this fucked up life of monsters and death. Everything worth living and fighting for was Sam and that was what came out of Dean's instrument.

When he finished, there was silence in the field. All Dean could hear was his heavy breathing.

Then a slow clapping sound came from the edge of the field and Dean looked over to see Sam and Bobby standing there with expressions of awe on their faces. They seemed too stunned to do anything but stand there and keep clapping slowly. Dean felt his face heat up with embarrassment at the presence of an unexpected audience—his family, no less—but cleared his throat and turned his attention to the Devil.

The Devil was gaping at Dean. But then he bowed his head because he knew that he'd been beat. He snapped his fingers and Sam gasped loudly, feeling something that had always had a hold on him suddenly let go. "It's done," Lucifer stated sullenly. "We're square on this Dean Winchester. But don't you ever try again with me, you son-of-a-bitch, because you might be the best fiddler but I'm the fucking Devil, and you will not beat me a second time." With that, he snapped his fingers again and all that remained in his place was a cloud of superheated smoke. Dean had to step back, the heat was so intense.

The joy that rose up in Dean once he realised that he'd actually done it, was so overwhelming that all he could do was bring his fiddle back up to his chin, and begin sawing away at it, while Sam and Bobby linked arms and started dancing around like a pair of loons.

These days, most everyone knows that Dean Winchester is the best damn fiddler that's ever been. That he outplayed the Devil. But only two people have ever heard him play, and he's keeping it that way.


End file.
